


A total of eight people

by thetimesinbetween



Series: On a rooftop in Bed-Stuy [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Bucky has a mild one for no particular reason), (Steve is coping with depression), Depression, F/F, Instagram, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Mentions of genocide, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slice of Life, Social Media, a very good cat, fandom features in the fic, post-CACW AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimesinbetween/pseuds/thetimesinbetween
Summary: Bucky admits that he likes eight (8) people. Steve buys a cat tree. Also, Wanda's girlfriend has the squad's stamp of approval.A few years post-CACW AU.





	A total of eight people

**Author's Note:**

> This follows directly from the previous part of this series.

**dichotomouse:** so am i the only one who fantasizes about cap being queer for real

**dichotomouse:** because that would be actual perfection

**dichotomouse:** like, think The Gay is new? 

**dichotomouse:** guess what motherfucker look at this Gay from 1917

**bibibyee:** think bisexuals are all dumb millennials who just want attention?

**bibibyee:** guess what motherfucker look at this Bi from 1917

**hellaaaa:** yeah but riddle me this if a bisexual is bisexual for 97 yrs will people stop telling him he’s confused and warning him he’ll have to come out again when he’s older?

**capsgirl454:** @hellaaaa i’m over 40. i fully expect to be hearing this shit until i’m 97. 

 

[screenshot: 78,899 notes]

**dichotomouse:** lol ok y’all i get the idea. i am definitely not the only one who fantasizes about cap being queer for real

**whyvengerss:** he is literally the most bisexual person i’ve ever seen

* * *

**nyctaloper:** The Discourse is hitting a little close to home today o_o

 **peglegcarter:** loper, you doing okay?

**nyctaloper:** Yep! Just a lot of feelings about queer Cap. 

**peglegcarter:** it’s just like an ocean of pantsfeelings underneath an overcast sky. the stormy clouds of discourse.

**nyctaloper:** Yeahhhhh

**smolhellion:** omg

**nyctaloper:** Quiet, smol.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Steve lures Bucky out of bed and downstairs to the coffee shop with the promise of dirty chai. Wanda is already there, sitting at a beat-up picnic table at the very back of the back patio, tapping at a laptop with one hand. Her chin is resting on her knee.

“Morning,” she says, straightening up a bit.

“Hey, kid,” Bucky scratches out, his eyes just barely slitted open. He drops onto the bench across from her and rubs at his stubbled cheek. 

“Excuse his manners,” Steve says, coming over with a steaming paper cup in each hand. He slides one into Bucky’s hands, and Bucky applies it directly to his face, swallowing greedily. “He doesn’t really like people until he’s dosed himself with caffeine.” 

“I don’t like people at all,” Bucky grumbles. 

Steve and Wanda both tilt their heads. Exact same angle. 

God. Fucking adorable. Fuck. Bucky scowls.

“I like a total of eight people. Outta nine billion.” He squints. “Maybe seven and a half. Is Barton people?”

Wanda snorts out a laugh. “I’m telling him you said that.” 

Steve peeks up guiltily, with a little smirk at the corner of his mouth. His phone is unlocked in one hand. “I’m already texting it to Natasha.” 

Bucky lays his head on the table. 

“If you don’t sit up, you can’t drink the rest of your chai,” Steve says. 

Bucky doesn’t move. 

“It’s gonna get cold,” Steve adds.

Bucky squints one eye open. Steve’s right. The bastard didn’t put a goddamn lid on the cup. Bucky hadn’t even questioned it.

Sometimes the fact that Steve is one of the most effective tactical minds of the past century is really fucking inconvenient. 

He sits up and takes a pull from his drink. Steve is trying to look casual rather than disgustingly smug. It isn’t working. 

“What’re you working on, Wanda?” Steve asks, to cover the smirk all over his face.

“History paper,” she replies. “It’s due in a couple days.” She gives the screen one last frown, then slides the laptop into the bag at her feet. “Ester keeps telling me I need to take breaks from it once in a while,” she admits. 

“Sounds like Ester has a good head on her shoulders,” Steve says, carefully. He has to be careful not to sound like he’s scolding. Wanda doesn’t tolerate scolding.

“She does,” Wanda sighs. “I know she’s right. But I can’t stop thinking about it.” She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could use my powers on my own brain.”

“What’re you writing about?” Steve asks, elbows on the table. 

“If it’s the thirties, you’ve got just about the most convenient sources right here,” Bucky says. 

Wanda laughs halfheartedly. “I wish. I should have thought of that. It is actually—genocide. The idea that genocide is inevitable.” 

Steve’s leans back, eyebrows drawing together.

“How the hell’d you end up writing about that?” Bucky asks. He’s still relaxed as anything, slouching with one boot up on the bench.

“There was this whole lottery of topics. They were supposed to be—challenging and relevant to the present day. They assigned me genocide.”

“And you couldn’t—“ Steve starts.

“They don’t want us changing topics unless we must. My cover has no history with violence.” She looks down, sighs a little. “I thought I could just…. It’s not as bad as it sounds. It wasn’t difficult, at first. There is a whole part that is very scientific. Evolutionary. Chimps and bonobos. But the rest….”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. 

“I was doing research. I kept thinking, it is never going to end. No matter what we do, it is never going to end.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, quieter.

“That helped me form a thesis. But I’m having some trouble finishing the paper.” 

“Kid,” Bucky sighs. “I’m getting you a drink. You like bourbon?” 

“Not sure that’s what Clint had in mind when he asked us to keep an eye on her,” Steve says, but even he is looking wilted.

“Bourbon it is,” Bucky says, and makes for the cashier.

* * * 

The next morning, Bucky slides away, and Steve groans in disapproval, shoving his face into the pillow. The light is weak and grey. It must be about 5 a.m.

“Payback,” Bucky croaks. 

“The fuck’re you going,” Steve moans. 

“It’s Wednesday,” Bucky reminds him. He pulls the tight skinfiber sleeve over his metal arm and slips out of the room. 

Steve sighs and hugs a pillow to his chest. 

Bucky locks the door behind him and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. These damn children and their damn educations. Bucky himself only finished tenth grade and he did fine. Supported himself, supported Steve half the time, helped out with his ma’s rent every month. 

Got drafted into the army, got himself captured and experimented on, fell off a train, got tortured for longer than some folks’ lifespan. 

On second thought, maybe Deja is onto something with this whole finishing high school, going to college plan. Wanda too. 

He rolls into the gym with about thirty seconds to spare. It’s a pretty small space, decent enough for Brooklyn these days. Shitty halogen lights, stink of several decades of sweat overlaid with powerful chemical cleaner. Four heavy bags along one wall, four speed bags along another. Ton of weights. Torn-up boxing ring. And Deja, hands already wrapped, waiting for him. 

“Swear to god, kid,” he says, taking off his backpack. 

“You’re—“

“I’m not late,” he says. “Get warmed up. Then speed bag.” 

Bucky spends a good bit of time at this gym. He’d settled into this place easily enough. People will mostly leave you alone, and it smells like a gym should smell. The owner, Marco, who sits on a folding chair outside for hours at a time, glaring at everything and feeding stray cats, is one of the eight human beings Bucky likes. 

Bucky trains people in the gym, and takes payment in cash. He gives Marco a cut, but he doesn’t charge much in the first place, so Marco’s not really getting much out of it. Bucky also refuses to train whoever he feels like refusing. Marco doesn’t seem to mind that either. 

Symbiosis, Bucky finally concluded, months ago. Symbiosis, that’s important. Not exploitation. 

Then he frowned and googled a little. _Commensal_ symbiosis: perfectly natural. 

He reminds himself about that a lot. That it’s natural. Eventually he’s gonna stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky finishes wrapping his wrists and glances at Deja. She’s hitting the bag in perfect rhythm. Which, jeez. No seventeen-year-old should be able to concentrate like that at six a.m. “All right, give it a rest,” he says, strapping on focus mitts. “Get over here.” 

Deja’s mom had first come in months ago, daughter in tow, looking for girls’ lessons. Self-defense, she said. Anger problems, she said. Affordable, she said. 

One of the proper trainers, Trey, had pointed her to Bucky, who’s dirt cheap and works with more women than anybody else in the place. He’d spent about two minutes with Deja before realizing that she hasn’t got anger _problems_ so much as a lot to be mad about and no good outlet. 

Unsurprisingly, they get along like a house on fire. 

He spends the next forty minutes running her through her combinations—or, at least, that’s what Bucky’ll tell her mom when she next visits. Really, as Bucky shouts out endless combinations, placing his hands for her to strike and strike and strike—mostly what he’s doing is letting Deja fight something. Turns out she needs to punch shit to get through the day just as much as he does. 

Deja is another one of the eight people Bucky likes. 

He makes her stretch a lot and wash up a little, and sends her off at 7 a.m. sharp to catch the bus. She doesn’t have any excused absences left; she’s gotta get to her fancy charter school on time. 

After she leaves, he starts shaking for no apparent reason. He heads out back. Scales the brickwork until he can swing up onto the fire escape. Climbs silently up to the roof. Lays down until the shakes pass. Smokes a joint. Sends Steve a selfie. Posts a picture of sunlight on the brickwork to Instagram. Takes a nap.

* * *

[2394879542.jpg]  
 **pancakehouseofgod:** k i been waffling bout this for a couple days. so. tell me straight yall. is that or isnt that the winter bleeping soldier at my farmers market.

 **autumnal-soldier:** hooooooly

**cyborgsexual:** 10000% sure that’s him. g-d, look at his jawline. he should never have a real beard again. only scruff.

**pastelsoldier:** id just like to note that his hair tie is pink. 

**nopetopuses:** i want my husband to look at me the way he’s looking at those plums

**smolhellion:** yaaaaaaaas

* * * 

Steve lays in bed for a while after Bucky leaves. He spends half the time luxuriating in the slow morning, the sunlight, the sheer fact that he is laying in his and Bucky’s warm bed. He spends the other half itching to get up and do something useful with himself, for God’s sake. When the balance tips toward itchy, about a half hour in, he stretches out, starts the coffeemaker, and hops in the shower in the meantime.

He has a half-finished sketch waiting on his pad in the common room. It’ll have to do. Once he sinks into the rhythm of drawing, he probably won’t even notice the time passing. 

About a month ago, he’d met with Hill to see if he could help with the refugee crisis. She insisted that his presence would do more harm than good. Turns out, they don’t much need supersoldiers in refugee camps. Counsellors, long-term administrative staff, lawyers—sure. But they sure as hell don’t need—as Hill’s staffer delicately put it—what some populations see as a symbol of American imperialism muddying the waters of global humanitarian relief. If Captain America showed up, he was told, mostly what would happen is the U.S. government would get mad at him and everybody else would be reminded how bitter they are that the U.S. has accepted only a few thousand refugees. 

Steve said he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. Hill said he should hold off until after the November elections at least. Apparently he’ll have more chance of an impact afterwards.  
Steve had shaken hands with Maria and her team. He’s pretty sure the helplessness didn’t show on his face. 

He’d briefly considered going anyway. But his year and half trapped in Wakanda as an asylee made him a little more cautious about how to best dive into global politics.

He also has both Sam and Bucky around to talk sense into him, these days.

Steve emerges from the shower when the water starts to chill. He’d zoned out and stayed in longer than he intended. That’s been happening a lot since the Accords. 

The coffeemaker will have kept the coffee hot, though. And if the cat were really hungry, she’d have barged right into the bathroom to let him know. It’s all right.

He towels off. Feeds the cat. Smiles at the dumb picture Bucky sent him. Drinks his coffee leaning out the kitchen window, watching the street rattle to life below. 

Bucky says that Steve’s two gifts are picking fights that’re too big for him and drawing. He says Steve has spent about the past century picking fights and he can take some time for his art now.

Sam says that Steve is so used to being burned out that he doesn’t know what healthy feels like anymore. He says that figuring out how to rest and refuel will actually make Steve more useful, not less. 

Steve more or less agrees. He does want to learn to rest. He does want to be able to do more good. He even wants to make more art. He’d forgotten how it feels to sink into the flow of drawing.

It feels good to not fill his days with violence. Good, to wake up in the same place every day. Good, to keep their plants and cat alive. Good to live in a neighborhood, to find the best bakery, to exchange friendly nods with the bodega cashiers. It even feels good to spend a long, quiet morning alone. 

Sometimes.

The rest of the time—the bad days—he feels like a useless dead grey slab of meat. 

Steve takes their laundry to the laundromat and runs a couple errands. He’s in a haze. He thinks about how Bucky sometimes slips into a thousand-yard stare, how the cat will come and paw at him, climb up his arm, complain right in his ear. Bucky has refused to even name the cat, let alone buy furniture just for her. Steve picks up a cat tree. It’ll fit right by the corner window. The cat’s getting too big to really fit on the window ledge, but she still tries when there’s a sunny patch. 

Bucky’s not home to raise an eyebrow at him, so Steve sets everything up and watches the cat inspect it. 

By the time Steve starts reheating leftovers for lunch, she’s blissed out, splayed in the sun. He flips to a blank page in his sketchbook while the oven warms up. 

So it’s a bad day. He can do bad days. He’s had a lot of practice. 

His pencil wanders. There’s a bit of their fire escape. There’s the curve of Bucky’s cheek. There’s Wanda, staring up at him from the page, from her prison cell, arms wrapped up like she’s in an asylum.

He wants to sketch today’s Wanda, the Wanda who he just saw: tired, free, alive—but he can’t make it work. Instead, he fills in the details. The stark light that had hollowed out her cheeks. The shock collar on her neck.

That’s not the end, he tells her, tells himself. Keep going. 

Steve tells himself: on the other side of today is tonight, when Bucky will come home all sweaty, wearing a cut-out tank top and ratty shorts. Steve can picture it: Bucky will narrow his eyes at the cat tree. Maybe he’ll scold Steve over it, or scold the cat, or maybe he’ll walk right through to the shower. Maybe he’ll straddle Steve right here on the couch, still sweaty, before they even get to dinner. Tonight, they’ll go to bed. Bucky will hold him. 

Tomorrow, he’ll see Sam for a morning run, he reminds himself, shading in the blankness in Wanda’s eyes. 

Not the end. Keep going. 

* * * 

_I know we had breakfast plans tomorrow_ , Wanda texts on Friday afternoon, _but I need several drinks followed by twelve hours’ sleep. Bearded Lady at 9?_

Bearded Lady at 9 it is. 

Sam, Steve, and Bucky are each about halfway through their first drink when Wanda arrives in disarray. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Study group went late and the B45 is a joke.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says, easy.

“Sit,” Steve says, half in Captain-voice. She flops into his seat at the little table they snagged out on the sidewalk. It’s noisy and a little nippy outside, but nothing compared to the din inside. 

“Now tell me what you’re drinking,” Steve continues. 

She lays her head on the table and groans. 

“It’s chilly, get her spiked hot cider,” Bucky says. 

“Good call,” Sam nods approvingly. 

Bucky looks over the lump that is Wanda again. 

“Maybe have ‘em spike it a couple times,” he adds.

“…Bad call,” Sam says.

“Thanks, ump,” Bucky snarks, and gives Steve a little push off toward the bar. 

Sam reaches over and shakes Wanda a little by the shoulder. “Get up here, what’s happening?” 

She sits up reluctantly, slouching, propping herself up with her elbows. 

“She’s been thinking about the unlimited nature of human cruelty for a few weeks,” Bucky says. 

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Well. Can’t say I don’t know how that goes,” he says. He scrunches Wanda up in a little side-hug and holds her there.

“It’s for school,” Wanda finally says. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asks, but just then, Steve comes back and thunks pint of cider down in front of Wanda. It’s steaming. 

She wraps her hands around it and takes two huge gulps. “Nope.” 

“Fair enough,” Sam says, and launches into the story of his trip to the Bronx zoo with his niece, which keeps them occupied until Wanda is just about sleeping sitting up, if her increasingly slow blinks are anything to go by. 

“Hey,” Steve jumps in when Sam’s winding down. “Either of you heard from Clint or Nat?”

“No. Been wondering about that myself,” Sam says.

“Clint warned me they’d be out of touch for a while,” Wanda says. “Could be they’re in the middle of nowhere, could be they’re going really low-tech to avoid being tracked. Could be both.” 

“Gotcha,” Sam says.

“Still. It’d be nice to have a check-in,” Steve sighs. 

Bucky snorts. “You take the man outta Captain America, but you can’t take the Cap—.” 

Steve frowns and elbows Bucky in the gut.

“Oof—what was that for?” Bucky protests.

“Discretion.”

“Sure, lecture the assassin about discre—”

“Discretion, _and_ I don’t need to wear a flag and carry a shield to care about my friends.” 

“I’m just saying. You gotta trust them too.”

Steve takes a long look at Bucky, and relents. “I do. Trust them.” 

Bucky nods, squeezes Steve’s shoulder. Takes a long swig of his drink. 

“I can’t figure out how you do that,” Sam complains. 

“Yeah, well, put in another couple decades’ practice, you’ll get there,” Bucky replies. 

“Nah, that’s not enough to catch up. He’s getting more ornery with age,” Sam says, and Steve starts laughing and protesting and Bucky and Sam are shouting him down, and Wanda just shakes her head with a grin and drains the rest of her pint.

When she actually starts dozing on Sam’s shoulder a while later, he gives her a squeeze and says, “Hey, let’s get you home, all right?” 

Wanda shakes herself awake. “Ester’s coming—” she yawns. “Coming to walk me home. Texted her a bit ago.” 

“We can walk with and m—hey!“ Steve breaks off as Sam swats him. 

“We _like_ Ester,” Sam reminds him. 

“We continue to like Ester even after Natasha did a deep dive into every electronic device she’s ever touched,” Bucky mutters. 

Wanda frowns but knows better to object to Natasha’s methods. 

Bucky grew up with five sisters and has long since realized that it’s not only important to beat the shit out of anybody who treats them badly, but also important not to scare off the ones who actually treat them right.

“Yes, we do, but it’s late and—”

“—and I’m a powerful woman who can take care of herself,” Wanda finishes for him. 

Steve makes an appealing face at Sam, who raises his eyebrows.

“She’s not wrong,” Sam says. 

“Thank you,” Wanda says.

“And she’s more likely to listen to us when it really matters if we aren’t pushy the rest of the time,” Sam adds. 

Wanda opens her mouth, then reconsiders. “You’re not wrong,” she admits, laughing, and just then Ester walks up, wheeling a beat-up bike, helmet swinging from her bag. 

Bucky doesn’t quite manage to say hello, because as soon as he sees her, his brain provides a detailed list of all the sex toys Natasha had found in Ester’s private Amazon wish list. 

“Hey, Ester,” Sam says, like a nice, well-adjusted person.

“Hey there. Lookin’ for Wanda? Long hair, great makeup, loads of flannel? Probably dead asleep?” 

Wanda snorts and stands, swaying only a little. “Very funny,” she says, but a grin sneaks out.

“I know it,” Ester says, slinging her arm around Wanda’s waist. “Love to stay and chat, but I gotta put this one to bed.” 

“It’s all right,” Steve says. “Good to see you.” 

“You too—Steve, James, and—sorry, I know we met—?” 

“Sam,” Sam says, with his sweetest smile. 

“Sam, right,” Ester replies. “Ester.”

“She’s tipping over, get going,” Sam laughs. “Go on.” 

Ester smiles and tugs Wanda away. “No riding the pegs for you tonight, my dear,” she says, just within Bucky’s hearing. “We’re walking. Fifteen minutes. Then bed.” 

Sam turns back when Ester and Wanda round the corner. “So, clearly she hasn’t put together who Wanda is.”

“Right,” says Steve. 

“But does she know about Clint? She lives in his building,” Sam continues.

“Apparently she was out of town the one time Barton actually starting shooting arrows around,” Bucky says. 

“Really.” 

“Took a trip to western Massachusetts. Hiking. Beautiful colors in the fall,” Bucky says. 

He had spent maybe a little more time than absolutely necessary going through Ester’s Instagram once Natasha got past the privacy lock. 

“And…nobody in the entire building thought to tell her that the mafia went after their landlord over the weekend?” Sam asks.

“Apparently not,” Bucky replies. At Sam’s incredulous expression, he adds, “Nat says the building feels pretty protective of Barton. She also maybe had a talk with a couple of ‘em.” 

“Oh my god,” Sam groans. “So half the building knows and the other half doesn’t?” 

“A few heavily suspect, and they’ve been discouraged from spreading rumors,” Bucky corrects. “Nobody is gonna immediately make the jump that their landlord is an Avenger. Nat only had to talk to the coupla folks who actually witnessed some of the fighting from their windows.” 

“Guess it helps that everybody thinks we all live in the Tower,” Sam says. 

“They do?” Steve asks.

“You ever gone to a grocery store? You walked past a newsstand? Our doppelgängers are all over the tabloids,” Sam replies. “‘Falcon arm-in-arm with Black Widow at Bryant Park! What will Hawkeye say?’ You know.” 

“Steve doesn’t go to the grocery store,” Bucky informs Sam. “It freaks him out.” 

Steve’s mouth twists down. “Isn’t that a safety concern?” he redirects. 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. 

“Kids live in Clint’s place,” Steve clarifies. “The parents should know.” 

“Rogers, we live next to a church and above a business that’s open like twenty hours a day,” Bucky says. “Only so much we can do here.” 

Steve frowns. 

“You’re gonna put somebody at risk regardless of where you live,” Sam says reasonably. “Didn’t you think about this when you got your place?”

“A little,” Steve says, reluctantly. “I mostly just needed a place.”

He had given up the shield, the uniform, the title. Took the target off his back. Sought asylum in Wakanda when the U.S. was busy trying to jail him and he was busy trying to deprogram Bucky’s brain. Saved the world one more time. And afterwards—what was left? All he’d wanted was to come home. A home where he could imagine Bucky joining him. If Bucky chose to. 

After a while, he did.

“Well, I’m not moving to Wyoming, so you better make your peace with it,” Bucky says. 

They all drink to that.

* * * 

_Instagram photoset: Four images, identical dimensions, stacked two on two._

 _Image one:_ Wanda, sitting outside in warm dim light, swathed in a huge knit scarf. Most of her face is covered by a large mug; her hands (in fingerless gloves) are wrapped around it loosely. 

_Image two:_ Side shot of the whole table. On the left, Bucky and Steve sit shoulder to shoulder, looking across the table with fond expressions on their faces. On the right, Wanda leans on Sam’s shoulder, her eyes closed. In the middle of the image, steam rises from a mug. 

_Image three:_ Wanda from behind, walking a bike down the sidewalk. She’s glancing over her shoulder, her profile silhouetted by the orange streetlight ahead. Her nose just barely peeks out of her scarf. 

_Image four:_ Low light. Wanda’s face mashed into a pillow, her bare shoulder peeking out of the comforter, Ester behind her, leaning over her a bit, grinning softly at the camera.

_Caption:_ sleepy girlfraaaaaan

* * * 

“I go to the grocery store,” Steve mumbles into Bucky’s collarbone.

“Rogers.” Bucky has already burritoed himself perfectly in cushy duvet and nearly dropped off to sleep. But no. Of course they’re talking about this now.

“I do.” 

“Not in the past six months you don’t,” Bucky says, rallying. “It’s always, ‘Buck, can you grab some eggs? Oh, are we out of everything else too? Well….’ Or ‘let’s just wait til Saturday for the farmer’s market.’”

Steve makes a grumpy sound. 

“What, Rogers. What.” 

“I could go to the grocery store.” 

“Nobody’s saying you can’t do it, punk,” Bucky sighs. 

“I could.”

“It’s midnight. The grocery store ain’t open. You ain’t moving.”

Steve grumbles. 

“Stevie.” 

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.” 

“Mmmm.”

* * * 

**nyctaloper (private message):** I mean, jeez, look at this [02185729584.jpg]

**smolhellion:** omg

**smolhellion:** same insta? this girl is a treasure trove.

**nyctaloper:** Yeah. Should i tell her she’s hanging out with half the avengers? She doesn’t seem to realize her gf is the scarlet witch and her gf’s pillow is the falcon. Like, damn.

**smolhellion:** can we take a moment to reflect bc at least 3 of the avengers are queer like holy shit tho??? 

**nyctaloper:** For real. Believe me, I’ve been having a lot of those moments.

**smolhellion:** i have no idea tho

**nyctaloper:** Maybe she knows. But you’d think that if she did, she wouldn’t be posting pics of them all over.

**smolhellion:** maybe they don’t care??

**nyctaloper:** I mean, I doubt it.

**nyctaloper:** Otherwise they’d be out already, you’d think. 

**smolhellion:** yeahhhhh

**smolhellion:** so like what, you think she’s dating scarlet witch and just hasn’t realized?

**nyctaloper:** Yeah, pretty much. Which is kind of concerning because 

**nyctaloper:** She could get killed or taken hostage or something. 

**nyctaloper:** Not to be a downer but 

**nyctaloper:** She should know what she’s getting into

**smolhellion:** yeah

**smolhellion:** yeah i don’t know what to say on that 

**nyctaloper:** Me either

**Author's Note:**

> The next part follows directly from this one.


End file.
